it's like the sun runs in your veins
by phaenomenaa
Summary: /she allows him to enjoy the sweetness of her mouth again and then she's stepping back and reminding him they've got places to be, things to do./ {domestic gerbelg; early mornings and fluff and stuff.}


There's the comforting warmth of the sun's light that wakes him, dribbling onto his skin as it sifts through the large white window panes. It casts over him and into the bedchamber; the cool blue of early mornings recedes slowly from the walls and over the commode and bookshelves as day breaks. **  
**

He sighs a heavy groan into his pillow, flits his hands around underneath it in a slight stretch as his palms push against the headboard of her bed. He blindly feels for his phone underneath the cushion again, turns the alarm off with a few annoyed taps.

Ludwig burrows his head back into the pillow, (it smells like her and her ylang-ylang and mayrose perfume,) until he hears her hum softly beside him. He turns his head to look at her; she's sleeping on her stomach too, her body supple and warm and comfortably nestled in her cotton-white sheets, her hair a bright contrast sprawled all over her pillow.

He leans towards her, weighed on his elbows, and presses his lips to her temple and she sighs again. He nudges her hair, his nose against her face and he feels her cheeks move in a smile as she whispers in her heavy daybreak-murmur, "Shove off, Ludwig."

He grins tinily at her pettish behaviour—normal in the very first moments of her waking up, whereas he slowly draws into grumpiness if he hasn't had his fresh coffee—and answers her with, "Guten Morgen, liebe." He stirs from his spot closer, draping himself over her in a hug, his chest warm and laden on her back. She groans out in small laughter, cooes an indignant, " _Luddy_ —" as he prods his visage into her neck, kisses her soft skin.

He's acting unlike himself ( _affectionate_ is the proper word,) but he hasn't seen her in forever—three months until late last night, more precisely—and he just wants to make up for lost time.

She tries to shift underneath him, moves so that she's on her side, stuck in a lock where her shoulder knocks against his collarbone and her palm presses into his chest. "It's too—" she starts, but he drops his full weight on her, and she giggle-snorts, gently rousing herself from sleep, "—early for this,—" her hand travels to his cheek, pushes against it as she cries out in a last attempt of tiny scolding : "—Lud!"

He touches his lips to her cheek in a kiss one last time before he slowly rolls off her and onto his back. She turns back onto her stomach, propped on her elbows as she rubs a gentle fist over her eyes. She looks at him, the green of her gaze speckled with grey in the sunlight—there's the easy blink of her eyes, the flutter of her eyelashes as she brushes off sleep. He smiles her that drowsy morning smile of his and she slides in closer; he raises his arm and she rests her cheek on his pectoral. Her movements are still lethargic and she almost melts when he starts to thread his fingers in her hair.

There's more cool wind that blows in past the curtains, and it lulls into the room. She's about to close her eyes again, fall back to dormancy, but he breaks the quietness with the simple utterance of her name in a murmur.

"What?" she whispers back just as gently, her eyes close as she rests on him.

"We have to get up," he urges tenderly.

She pauses, grazes her face to his chest and hums in response, "Alright."

Mathilde shifts off him as he pulls himself upright. Her hand rubs over the dents he's left in the sheets, slowly brushing down the cotton until it reaches him, and she prods a deft finger into the muscles of his back. She watches them move as he threads his fingers above his head to stretch, grunting as his joints crackle. The sound leaves a ripple of emotion down her back.

He pulls the cover off them, stands and stretches some more, his left hand grounded over his right shoulder as he pushes his arm out. He glances at her as he strides over to her bathroom : "I'm going to take a shower, ja?"

"Okay," she answers him, still languid on the bed. The look his features hold when she makes no clear indication of joining him satisfies her, and there's the slight raise of her eyebrow as Ludwig watches her, wavering.

His expression smooths over, imperceptible and meant to be indifferent, but still she professes a slight, girlish chuckle when he enters her bathroom.

Mathilde, not particularly keen on moving yet, plays with a few strands of her golden hair, lets out a sigh that holds only contentment and pushes her arms over her head with the insouciance of a cat. She contemplates the ceiling for a moment, taking a few breaths until the sound of the shower starts and it's enough for her to rouse.

She lifts herself off the mattress, bends over to pull her discarded pyjamas off the floor and pads towards her doorway. They fall softly around her as she slips them on and heads out for the staircase; she'll go into the kitchen and have her very favourite yogourt with berries and granola. If he hurries up, he might even get a bite.

She listlessly drops down the creaks and cracks of the stairs, a measured hand on the railing, and she can't help herself but beam idiotically, thinking about the way she was woken up today.

.

After breakfast, they're hurrying about her room thinking they've spent too much time talking downstairs, until she realizes with flitting laughter as she's pulling her pencil skirt on that the clock in her kitchen is early—Ludwig grumbles something about fixing it later and she replies, "It wouldn't have really mattered if we were late; we would've just been late to your planning on being early." She pauses, her head dips to the side slightly, "If that makes sense—" she waves a hand in the air as she turns to her closet, "—you know what I mean."

"I still like being on time," he answers, stepping back into the bathroom. She peers into her walk-in, looking for a blouse, and she hears him call, "Mathilde, have you seen my razor—oh, wait, never mind—"

"You know," she starts, pulling a fresh chemise out, watching its sheer-white flowy form spread from the drawer, "I don't see why you bother." She inspects the shape, steps out and turns to her vanity's looking glass as she drapes it on herself.

"Bother what?" he asks, peering out of the doorframe. He's got cream all over his cheeks, and there's a streak of shaven skin underneath the hover of his hand. "I mean, it's not like you have anything to shave, really," she explains, leaning over her desk as she inspects her different perfumes, shirt dangling on her arm.

"What?" Ludwig repeats, offended. He watches her palm curve around a bottled fragrance, the cap coming off with a _pop_! as she sprays some aroma over herself. (There's a dab between her cleavage; her wrists; the underside of her jawline.) "I have stubble," he tells her with self-assured petulance.

"Sure," she agrees helplessly, pulling her blouse on. "Oh, zut," she says, looking down to unzip her skirt, waggling it down her hips to tuck her shirt in properly before fixing herself up again. She glances up at him, flattening her hands over her herself as she smoothes any wrinkles out. "I mean, it's just that I've never actually seen any. Or felt any, for that matter."

He glowers momentarily, not gratifying her with an answer before resuming to his shaving. Mathilde walks in beside him, a coy simper on her lips as she leans over the sink to grab her toothbrush, spreads paste over the white fibers and wets it to plop it into her mouth.

"I do have stubble." He makes show of craning his head back ever-so slightly, sliding the blade down his left cheek; he knocks his razor on the sink, the cream splattering on the porcelain. There's the rinse of water, and she purses her mouth funnily, the brush dangling from her lips and her fingers idle around it. Mathilde's eyes narrow slightly, and she repeats with tease, "Sure."

He knocks an elbow into her side and she hums around her toothbrush in laughter, catching his stare in the mirror.

.

When she finishes with her routine—make up all done up—and he's cleaning up any nicks, she struts out of the washroom and over to her vanity; glances in the mirror as she slips earrings in and comments again, "At least it's attractive when you do it."

He's sauntering out to her side, pressing a towel around his wet cheeks but comes to a halt when she tells him; he slowly brings it down from his face, eyes gliding to hers. There's astonishment etched into his features; "You think it's attractive when I shave?"

Her shoulders move in a shrug and she says with a smile, "Well, yeah."

"Oh—" he falters, brushes a hand over the nape of his neck—she thinks he might be trying to act a little smug about it, "—well, uh…"

She blinks, unimpressed. Ludwig stares at her apathetically, at a loss for words. She laughs at his reaction, leaning into him to kiss his cheek. "Dork."

He moves his head, angling it to hers and then there's the warmth of his mouth over hers and the quiver of his eyelashes. She moans, pleasantly surprised; she feels the dab of his tongue over her bottom lip as she leans up into him, parts her mouth open. He obliges happily and Mathilde slips her fingers into his belt-loops to tug his pelvis to hers. He steps closer and his palms flit over her lower back,—towel long forgotten on the floor—their hold lukewarm through the fabric of her skirt.

He pulls her to him and hears her sigh contentedly. She breaks away after a moment, lips still hovering over his. "God," she starts in a murmur, "we haven't done that in forever." Her remark comes out a little taken aback, fingers brushing over her wet mouth.

She's talking about the gentle casualness of the kiss, about the absent-minded affection. He taps his forehead to hers, beaming shyly. "No, we haven't."

Mathilde's eyes flick back to his, and she touches the tip of her nose lightly to his, "I missed it—I missed _you_."

"Me too," he reassures, hands tightening on her hips, his thumbs massaging softly. She smiles, eyelashes brushing low as she allows him to enjoy the sweetness of her mouth again and then she's stepping back and reminding him they've got places to be, things to do.

.

He's waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs of her front hall, checking the watch on his wrist; "Mathilde…"

"Oui! I'll be right there—" she calls from above, and he can hear the fast click-click of her heels on the hardwood floor. "I just forgot my briefcase in the study!"

He straightens, sighing lightly but there's a tiny smile on his lips. Ludwig moves next to the front door; he stands in front of her hall's looking glass as she's coming down the stairs, double checking his hair and tightening his tie. Her mouth curls into a smirk when she catches his glance upwards into the mirror and he says, dryly, "Was."

"Nothing!" she quips in a careless manner, reaching him with her briefcase in hand.

He raises a brow, glances her over and asks, "Ready?"

She nods, picking her purse and keys off the coat rack; he opens the front door for them, steps out and she slides beside him to lock up. "I think nearly everyone's in today," she comments airily.

"Oh, joy," he drawls, marching down the stairs of her townhouse to her car.

"They'll be happy to see you," she offers, reaching him on the sidewalk, unlocking the doors with the loud beep of her car keys. "Feli will be there!" Mathilde says, opening the passenger side.

He glances at her sideways, crossing over to the driver's seat. "They're all going to be bickering for favours," he says, sliding in.

"But Feli will be there," she repeats. They're both buckling in as she hands him the keys.

"As will be Lovino," he reminds her, fixing the rear-view mirror to his height. She rolls her eyes, "Don't lie, darling. You're happy to be back amongst this mess."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," he says sarcastically, starting the car. Mathilde leans over, drops a kiss on his cheek and grins, "I knew it."


End file.
